23. Tallus

“Can we just admit you aren’t a people person?”

The road ahead took the brunt of Diem’s animosity as his eyes narrowed. “You work in the morning. I’ll handle it.” A pause. “And we aren’t partners. Stop telling people that.”

I ignored the second half of the statement. “If I let you do this, I’ll be bailing you out of jail because of your inability to read the room and back down or go easy. Your presence made her uncomfortable. It’s not your fault, Guns. I happen to like your bulging biceps, broad chest, and six-and-a-half feet of daunting height. Even your broodiness is sexy to me, but the consensus is you’re intimidating and a tad abrasive at times. It would be safer if I went and talked to her alone. We’ll get better results.”

He wrung the steering wheel and worked his jaw in protest. “You work,” he spat, emphasizing his only argument.

“I do, but not until nine. Natalia said she teaches at eight, so that gives me plenty of time to get to headquarters before my shift.”

The bear rumbled in Diem’s chest, and I smiled to myself.

I’d won.

I said goodbye to Diem in the parking structure across the street from his office building, not wanting to go upstairs and impose on his night. He seemed disappointed I was leaving but didn’t question my decision.

If he asked me to stay, I would.

But he didn’t. This was Diem after all.

“I’ll be here by quarter after six in the morning. Deal?” I asked.

He grunted, not making eye contact, shuffling his feet. Before I headed to my car, I took his hand and squeezed it. “See you tomorrow, Guns.”

Only then did he look me in the eye.

***

I figured it was my turn to grab food. It was Friday, and I’d gotten paid, but since my budget didn’t extend to extravagant breakfasts, I went through a drive-through and grabbed croissants and coffees. Simple but effective.

Diem greeted me at the door wearing newer-looking jeans and an unbuttoned button-up shirt with a tee underneath. He was clean-shaven, wafting a fresh shower scent. Knowing he didn’t have the ability to shower at the office, I tilted my head in question. “Have you been to the gym already?”

I earned an affirmative grunt. Something told me Diem had tried to put himself together for my benefit. Typically, he wore rugged jeans and faded T-shirts, but not today. And the perpetual scruff was gone. It was the first time I’d seen his face baby-bottom smooth.

“What time were you up?”

“Early.”

“Hungry?” I held up the offering. “It’s not much. Cheese croissants.”

“Thanks.”

We ate on our drive to the university. I searched and saved recent photos of Beth, Olivia, and Noah to my phone at Diem’s suggestion so I could ask Natalia if she’d seen them around campus or her house. I was confident in my ability to build a rapport with the professor’s wife and hoped she would openly share anything she might have learned during the investigation. She didn’t seem keen on her husband and his affairs, but I still planned to tread carefully.

York campus was quiet at that time of day, and Diem easily found parking near the creative arts building where Natalia Shore’s office was located. She taught art history, according to Diem’s research, and was one of only two professors in her department working that summer.

“I guess I’ll wait,” he grumbled after putting the Jeep in park.

“I doubt it’ll take long.”

He nodded, staring ahead at the front entrance. The early morning sun streamed through the window and highlighted the side of his face. His stormy gray eyes almost shone silver.

“Do you trust me to do this?”

“Yeah.”

I finished the last sip of my latte and left the cup in the holder. “Wish me luck.”

He didn’t, but that was Diem.

I found my way inside and wandered the halls until I located the administrative section and Natalia Shore’s office on the second floor. The building was desolate, and I didn’t encounter a single soul apart from a janitor on my journey.

The rooms I passed were dark inside. Vacant. A light shone from under the door of Natalia’s office. I rapped on the frosted windowpane and waited for her to invite me to enter. At first, no one responded.

I knocked again. Louder.

“Come in,” said a tired-sounding voice from beyond.

I let myself in, closing the door behind me, and found the beautiful, middle-aged woman seated behind her desk, face buried in her hands, blonde hair curtaining either side of her downcast head.

“Mrs. Shore?”

It took her a second, but she lifted her gaze and studied me. The lines on her face seemed deeper today, and her eyelids sat low over her blue eyes like she was struggling to stay awake. I had a hunch the poor woman wasn’t sleeping well.

“Krause, right?”

“No. I’m Tallus Domingo. Krause is my partner.” I imagined Diem cringing all the way in the parking lot.

She nodded half-heartedly and waved at a molded plastic chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Please. I’m fighting a killer headache, so you’ll excuse me if I’m a bit out of it.”

“I understand. I suffer from migraines.”

“I don’t. Usually. It came on all of a sudden. I think the stress is getting to me. I’m not sleeping, I’m barely eating, and I’m exhausted. I came in early to mark some papers and surprised the cleaning woman half to death.” Natalia chuckled. “And twenty minutes later, my head starts pounding, and all I want to do is curl up on the floor and nap.”

“I’m sorry you’re going through this. My presence probably isn’t helping matters.”

“You think my husband killed more people?” Her pained expression implored me to say no.

I pressed my lips together, trying to think of the best approach. I couldn’t lie. “It’s possible. We don’t have proof. We know he met with one of the women we were keeping tabs on last Friday, and several hours later, she was found dead in her home.”

Natalia studied my face, forehead creased. “Who is she?”

“Do you know the name Beth Rowell?”

When Natalia did nothing more than stare with confusion, I found the picture on my phone and showed her.

She fumbled the device when I passed it off, and it clattered to the desk before she picked it up again and glanced at the screen with a frown. She didn’t speak for a long time, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Does she look familiar?”

“How did she die?”

“The police aren’t certain. They believe she might have been injected with something untraceable.”

Natalia huffed and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose and balancing her elbows on the desk. Was she thinking what we thought? That her husband dealt with drugs, and it seemed perfectly plausible he might have access to something that fit that descriptor.

I took my phone back and pulled up Noah’s picture. “How about this guy?”

Natalia didn’t move. The fingers she’d been using to pinch the bridge of her nose slipped and fell to the desk. Her head slumped forward on her shoulders, and her whole body moved with the momentum. Before she hit the desk, I reacted, snagging her arm and keeping her upright. “Whoa. Hey, are you okay? Mrs. Shore? Natalia?”

She jolted and blinked a few times. It seemed to take her a minute to focus. “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept in days, and my head…”

“Maybe you should go home. You don’t look well.”

She squinted at my phone where it had fallen to the desk. Pain radiated through the lines of her face. Again, she fumbled to pick up the device, and I got the queer sense Natalia wasn’t just tired. She was loaded, almost blackout drunk.

Or high.

Her husband sold drugs. Christ.

“Do you know him?” I asked, growing irritated, no longer feeling sorry for her.

“No.”

She tried to return the phone, but it slipped from her fingers before I could catch it.

“Are you sure you don’t recognize him? He’s dead, Natalia.” Although not under suspicious circumstances like Beth. I didn’t feel it was necessary to get into details. If Noah killed himself, it was likely because David had scared him half to death with threats.

“I don’t feel good.” Natalia braced her hands on the desk like she was trying to keep her balance.

“Do you need the bathroom? Are you going to be sick?”

“No. I need to lie down. Can you…” She motioned to a reading chair in the corner. “Just for a minute. Please. Can you help me?”

I stood and rounded the desk, assisting her to her feet and guiding her to the chair. She seemed to struggle to make her legs work and landed hard on the cushioned surface the minute we were within range. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, groaning.

I squatted and patted her leg. “Natalia?”

No response.

I didn’t smell alcohol.

“Natalia, did you take something?”

When I still didn’t get an answer, I stood too fast and instantly grew lightheaded. Croissants were never a substantial enough breakfast for me.

Once the world recentered and I caught my balance, I moved to the desk and plunked down in the chair Natalia had vacated. I opened the drawers, looking for clues. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought, I should text Diem and tell him to get his ass up here.

A few drawers down, I found a handful of prescription bottles and read their labels. Antianxiety meds. Antidepressants. A few I didn’t recognize. I shook them, and they all seemed full.

“Natalia?” I called over my shoulder.

No answer.

“Natalia?” I said louder, pivoting and moving toward her again. Like before, the instant I stood, the world tilted nauseatingly sideways. I tripped on my feet as the ground wobbled.

What the fuck was wrong with me? Too much caffeine? I’d had one coffee, for fuck’s sake. Was my iron low?

Shaking it off, I kneeled beside Natalia again and rattled a pill bottle in her face. “Did you take these?”

When she remained conked out, I jostled her, and she flopped like a rag doll with no control of her limbs. She didn’t wake. “Hey! Answer me. Did you take these pills?”

My grip weakened on the bottle, my fingers losing dexterity, and it fell from my hand. I tried to pick it up but fumbled it twice, and it rolled under the chair. When I ducked to see where it had gone, the sting of a headache announced itself at the base of my skull, stabbing and spearing my brain, and I ended up sprawled on the floor, clutching my head.

“The fuck?”

Something was wrong.

Why was everything spinning?

Why was I so groggy and uncoordinated?

Where was my phone?

It took effort to align my thoughts. The desk. I’d left my phone on the desk. Moving cautiously, I got to my hands and knees, my limbs heavy and shaky. The migraine I’d fought so hard to get rid of was returning with a vengeance. How unfair. I had nurtured it. It had gone away.

I glanced from Natalia to where the pill bottle had landed and rolled under the chair out of sight as I tried to put the pieces together. I didn’t know why I was kneeling on the floor.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

The words reoccurred like a bad omen, and I knew I needed to do something, but I was too tired to figure out what. I only wanted to lie down and close my eyes until the headache passed.

No.

My phone.

Call Diem.

I crawled to the desk, my limbs soupy and unforgiving.

When I got to my feet, the world shifted on its axis.

The vertigo was too much, and I lurched forward to catch the edge of the desk before I fell. My strength was gone, and my arms buckled. My knees joined them. I went down, smashing my forehead along the desk’s unforgiving edge. I jolted at the flash of pain, momentarily regaining control, but I lost it again in an instant, tumbling forward. The second time I connected with the desk, my face took the impact.

I hit the ground and curled into a ball of agony.

I groaned, threw my glasses off, and rocked back and forth in a fetal position, cradling my injured face. I must have broken my nose. It hurt like a bitch. Something wet and sticky coated my fingers.

I rolled to my back, and when I removed my hands, they were crimson. For a few minutes, I blinked at the mess, uncomprehending. Confused.

What happened to me?

I fell. I remember falling.

I glanced around the room, but the world was blurry and indistinct. Where was I?

Something’s wrong.

My head hurts. My migraine is coming back.

I need pills.

Pills. Something about pills. They rolled away.

Where am I?

Something’s wrong.

Shaky and losing coordination by the second, I rolled to my hands and knees. A river of blood trickled down my face. Pain. Throbbing pain. I was injured but couldn’t remember what had happened.

I needed a minute to get my bearings, but the room was too blurry and wobbly.

I gave up, rested my head on the carpeted office floor, and closed my eyes. I would take a second. Just a quick minute. Then I’d sort myself out.

Sleep dragged me under, but I jolted before it could take me completely. I was supposed to call Diem. Where was my phone?

Dizzy and with waning energy, I somehow managed to pull myself upright using the edge of the desk. I searched the surface for my phone, slapping a hand around when I couldn’t see well enough to locate it. When my fingers connected with the familiar plastic case, I dragged it toward me.

In a flash, I was back to lying on the floor.

Fumbling, head aching, groggy, dizzy, and too tired to make sense of the situation, I somehow managed to pull up my contacts. I had to hold the phone inches from my face to see it. Mom’s name peered back at me.

Why am I calling Mom again?

Did she invite me for supper?

That’s a good idea. I have no food in the fridge.

Before I could tap her name, Diem’s profile caught my eye. His number sat at the top of the list under my mother’s. Seeing it jarred a memory.

Something’s wrong.

Call Diem.

I’d saved his name under favorites. We didn’t talk a lot, but I wished we did.

He didn’t like touching people.

I just want you to touch me. I don’t think you’re ugly.

What am I doing?

“Call Diem,” I said out loud. My voice sounded strange, like it was far, far away.

I tapped his name and left a smear of blood on the screen. My face was wet. Why was my face wet? I touched it and discovered more blood.

Oh god.Was I bleeding?

Was I hurt?

What was happening?

Ringing.

My phone was ringing. I had to answer it but couldn’t make sense of anything, and all I could do was stare at the device in my hand.

No. Wait. I was making a call.

A raspy grunt answered, and I huffed a halfhearted laugh. “You’re like, grr, I’m a bear.”

“What the fuck are you calling me for?”

“I’m not scared of you, and you’re not ugly, and I just wish you’d touch me.”

“What… What are you talking about?”

“I’m so tired. My stupid migraine came back.” I whimpered. “I think I’m bleeding.”

“Tallus, you’re not making sense.”

“Something’s wrong, Guns. The pretty lady is having a nap, and I’m… Where are my glasses?”

“Tallus?”

“Help me… Help me, D. Something’s really wrong.”

Diem cursed a blue streak on the other end of the line, and I heard a door slam. He understood. He was coming.

I couldn’t manage more words, and sleep dragged me into her clutches much faster than I liked. The soft carpet under my cheek felt good, so I closed my eyes.

The last thing I thought of before falling asleep was: There’s something yucky on my face.